


Chasing Sunsets

by chaineddove



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at the years following Hawke's disappearance, complete with Antivan Crows, partial nudity, bootlegging, piracy, and the unexpected realization that life, for all intents and purposes, is pretty damn good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Sunsets

**Author's Note:**

> Meant as a standalone, but the end does link up with chapter 5 of [Turning in Revolution](http://archiveofourown.org/works/277282/chapters/439498), for anyone who is interested in a continuation.

In the time before everything changed, someone – all right, not someone, _Varric_ – had ferreted out the fact that she had promised to follow Isabela to sea, once her ship was fit for travel, and that same someone had decided that this was joyous news meant to be shared with all (“You never seem to have anything better to do than gossip about me,” Hawke had accused; the dwarf had only chuckled and responded, “Can you really blame me?”). Her uncle had gotten wind of it and actually trekked across town at an unholy hour of the morning to inform her she was crazy, trading in Hightown and the adoration of the populace for “some filthy brig” – which was rich, coming from him, considering the perpetual state of his Lowtown hovel, and she told him so – and her friends weren’t far behind in opinion.

Most people seemed to assume that she didn’t think the decision through before agreeing, being too flabbergasted by Isabela’s sudden change of heart to consider the consequences; with these people she joked that she just wanted to make sure Isabela didn’t _actually_ try to steal the Queen of Antiva to liven things up. “I’ve had about all the livening up I can take for awhile,” she told a concerned Anders, and Isabela gave her a mocking look from across the table and she burst into laughter because, all right, that wasn’t true, and never had been (though maybe the part about keeping the pirate away from the Queen of Antiva was a _little_ true, because while pulling Isabela’s admittedly nice ass out of trouble had become a sort of habit, she thought killing Crows would probably get exhausting after awhile, even for someone like her).

Anders had given her a sad smile and told her he was happy she had the heart to be so carefree, and she had smiled back and promised him that she would write and brighten up his dreary existence without her, a promise she has since broken. Of all of the things she has chosen to leave behind, Anders, with his sad eyes and his internal war and his words of concern, is the one thing she is still not willing to think about. Anders, former friend, the man her sister had innocently been secretly sweet on so long ago, the man she has killed hundreds to protect, has made his choices, as she has made hers (“Go,” she had told him, just one word, and he had bowed his head to the inevitable and done what she had ordered; she has not seen him since, and it is best for everyone that she doesn’t, or she may be considerably less civil).

Ironically, it is these choices, haphazard as they may seem, which have saved her, and everyone she holds dear. Two weeks into their forced period of hiding, Isabela comes back from her own foraging (hilariously, no one blends like Isabela, unlikely as it may seem, and she is the reason they still have real soap, among other crucial things) and announces, “We’ll have to go at night but if you’re willing to bribe the harbormaster, we can finally get out of this dreary place and have some _real_ fun.”

“You mean this isn’t supposed to be fun?” Hawke quips, rubbing her temples to banish a headache (Anders is gone, and it is disconcerting to feel so uncomfortable after years of running to him with every ill, but a little discomfort is, she thinks, a small price to pay if she can avoid thinking about him altogether). “Well, that’s a relief; I thought for a minute I was going mad.”

“You mean you weren’t mad all along?” Varric inquires with a shadow of his usual good cheer, and all of them laugh – except Hawke, who feels too tired, too frustrated, too _everything_ – and it is almost the way it was before.

***

It takes some time before she’s done throwing up (and glaring bloody murder at her very unsympathetic lover who laughs, and laughs, and laughs, even as she provides clean buckets a few times a day) and can walk without pitching from side to side like a drunkard. She is so miserably ill that she can barely say good-bye as the others disembark at their destinations of choice – they have lives to rebuild, after all (“And besides,” Varric tells her as he goes, “your puking is pathetic.”).

Even Bethany goes eventually, when they are restocking in Amaranthine, though her eyes glisten suspiciously as she grips her tight, as though they may never see each other again. “Stay well, sister,” she whispers, and that is all. She hugs Isabela, too – which makes the captain look rather uncomfortable – before striding off with a determined gait towards wherever she is going. Hawke wishes she had stayed, but understands why she feels she cannot. There is a darkness in her little sister’s eyes now, and she has her own destiny; it is time now for her to live it. Still, she feels the sting of unshed tears in her own eyes, but then it is replaced with what has become her habitual queasiness, which makes it easier to hide.

***

The first night she feels like herself – almost a month into the maiden voyage – she stands at the prow of the ship and lets the wind blow her hair out of her face and thinks that she might live, after all, if she can only manage to keep down anything but weak tea. The stars are a bright carpet of diamonds overhead and the air smells of salt and freedom; she takes a deep breath and lets it out in a contented sigh when her stomach doesn’t churn in protest. “I was beginning to think you were a lost cause,” comes Isabela’s voice from the darkness; the captain approaches on silent feet, as is her way, and Hawke turns to meet her, trying not to look quite as wan and pathetic as she feels – although it is probably futile, considering her present condition.

“It’s a good thing I’ve more patience than you, if a few weeks is your limit for lost causes,” she says with a shake of the head, thinking of how long it took them to get here. Fortunately, she has tenacity in spades. “Then again, they say patience is a virtue, so I suppose I am not surprised.”

Isabela wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Virtue is highly overrated,” she says with conviction as she loops her arms loosely around Hawke’s neck and gives her a lingering kiss which has warmth spreading through her blood despite the brisk air. “And anyway, I think you prefer that I don’t have any,” she purrs as she pulls back.

“I can’t argue,” Hawke concedes. The early stirrings of desire are a welcome change from the way she has been feeling recently, and although she is still none too steady on her feet, she thinks she should be able manage to stumble back to the captain’s suite, at least, at which point staying on her feet should cease to be an issue. “If you suddenly developed compunctions, I’m not sure I’d know what to do with you.”

“I could give you an idea or four, if you like,” Isabela offers with a telling glint in her eyes. “I’ve been storing them up while you’ve been busy being pathetic, and you owe me for thirty-some buckets.”

“Do I, really?” Hawke asks.

“If you think I’ve ever hauled refuse overboard for anyone _else_ , you’re mistaken,” Isabela tells her. “Maybe I should have sent that little rat Enrico in to you, after all; he seemed more than eager, sick as you were, but I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction.” The mention of Isabela’s very short, very Antivan, and very lascivious first mate has Hawke trying to suppress a smile; she does not think his eyes have ever traveled above her throat in all of her dealings with him thus far. The fact that Isabela has apparently been making his existence a living hell for it is strangely endearing.

“And that, of course, would have been just terrible,” she drawls. “Are you expecting me to beg for your forgiveness?”

“The thought crossed my mind, but I think I’ll give you something more interesting to beg for,” Isabela promises, and draws her belowdecks.

***

“I may regret asking this, but do you want to talk about it?” Isabela says quietly, and Hawke realizes she cannot feign sleep; the night is still and Isabela has propped herself up on her elbow to regard her in the dim glow of the single banked lantern which is rocking softly back and forth with the motion of the waves.

Hawke thinks of making an offhanded comment – _why talk when we can just do it again,_ or maybe _I think you should write to my sister and apologize for cutting off your list at six when it’s obvious that was at least eight_ – but then she remembers the night after her mother’s murder and Isabela perched next to her on the edge of the bed, not touching, trying to offer comfort with words even though she is clearly out of her element, and she only says, “I don’t know that there’s any point in dwelling on it; whether or not it was the right thing to do, it’s done now, isn’t it?”

“You have an unhealthy fixation on ‘the right thing,’” Isabela informs her. “I will have to cure you of it, sooner or later.”

“We’ll compete, I suppose, for who manages to utterly ruin the other’s worldview first,” Hawke parries. “If anything, I’m fairly sure I’m winning.”

“I _hope_ not,” Isabela says with an exaggerated shudder. “What a bore that would be.”

“Captain Isabela, a bore? We can’t have that.” She laughs, and it feels wonderful; the laughter, the darkness, Isabela stretched out next to her with her hand tracing circles on her hip, even the rocking of the damnable boat. It is as if a weight has been lifted from her, and for the first time in what feels like forever, she is free.

“There,” Isabela says with considerable satisfaction. “I was wondering if you’d forgotten how to do that.”

“For awhile,” Hawke replies softly. “I’m out of practice, I think.”

“Be careful that brooding look doesn’t get stuck on your fact,” Isabela threatens. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“What brooding look? I don’t _brood_ , or did you forget I’m not Fenris?” She runs a hand down Isabela’s back and adds, “I can remind you, if you like.”

“I’ll bet,” Isabela says with a shake of her head. “But you’re looking more like him than you think. Minus the tattoos, unfortunately. And you’re changing the subject.”

“One of my many talents,” Hawke replies lightly.

“Pretending something never happened is an excellent philosophy,” Isabela murmurs. “Except, of course, when it doesn’t work. I wasn’t planning on coming back, you know.”

“That was what I assumed,” Hawke responds easily. “No one was more shocked than I was to see you sauntering in there with that book, though you wouldn’t admit afterward why you had done it.”

Isabela shakes her head. “No, not that time.”

Hawke rolls her eyes. “I must have lost track,” she says dryly. “It is so common, after all.”

Isabela swats her hip where she has been stroking it, rather hard. “There’s gratitude for you.”

“I knew you would come back,” Hawke says after a moment. “After, I mean.”

“You’re an insufferable romantic,” Isabela says with a forced laugh.

“Or maybe I know you better than you know yourself,” Hawke tells her.

“Now there’s a truly terrifying thought,” Isabela tells her sourly. “That will teach me to try cheering you up.”

***

“You Fereldans,” Isabela says with a sad shake of her head the first time Hawke balks at the tiny scrap of fabric which is supposed to serve as clothing while at sea, “pretending to be so _proper_ , and all those _layers_.”

“It is not particularly warm in Ferelden,” Hawke points out peevishly.

“Then it is a good thing we are not in Ferelden, don’t you think?” Isabela parries, climbing into her lap and giving her an amused look. “In the summer, it’s all I can do not to strip off entirely. I wouldn’t be the first woman to work bare-chested alongside the men, and the sun on your skin can feel _so_ nice.” Her voice has dropped to a low hum and her hands have been very busy and really, Hawke thinks, what’s a girl to do?

“Shocking,” she murmurs even as her fingers are busy tugging at the lacing at the front of Isabela’s tunic. That is the last coherent thing she has to say for some time.

Her armor is accordingly stored away in the hold – and good riddance to it, according to Isabela, who has pointed out that anyone wearing that much metal would sink like a stone if she ever fell overboard – and she adopts something very similar to the Rivaini’s favored slitted tunic, although it takes her some time to become accustomed to the fact that her legs are always on display (Isabela, of course, approves of this, but then Isabela would probably approve if she got it into her head to walk around stark naked, at least until the men started a riot over it). Enrico keeps right on staring and Isabela keeps right on lambasting him for every imagined error he might ever have dreamed of making, which fortunately seems to garner her the Antivan’s respect along with his ire.

She has been allowed to keep her sword, at least, even if it has taken her the better part of a month to learn how to handle it when the ship is pitching on the waves. She is continuously surprised that they do not drift off course or crash outright anytime she and Isabela spar on deck – “To keep you sharp,” Isabela says, though secretly Hawke wonders if it isn’t just an excuse to add artfully inappropriate slashes to her clothing with her lightning-quick daggers – because by the time they’re done, the entire crew tends to be watching and making bets, up to and including whoever is meant to be minding the wheel at the time. It is difficult to blame them, because Isabela in action is nothing short of magnificent.

Not that admiring the captain’s form keeps her from winning as often as she loses. The Champion of Kirkwall has to have _some_ pride, even if she is on the run in something that resembles cleverly torn undergarments.

***

They spend the first year almost entirely at sea. They put into various ports exactly long enough to restock (and to give the men a chance to “relieve some tension,” as Isabela so delicately puts it, although the delicacy is somewhat ruined by the accompanying hand gesture, which is not ambiguous _at all_ ) before setting out again. Her memories of this time are full of the spice and salt of every port in Thedas, the freedom of being a stranger amongst strangers, the tang of the sea before a storm, Enrico’s cursing, Isabela’s laughter.

She attempts to learn how to steer the ship, and nearly keeps her promise of scuttling them in what, to her, looks like open ocean. Isabela accuses her of doing it on purpose, but for a little while, she is excused from steering duty. She finds other ways to occupy her time; she is not bad at bargaining, as it turns out, and once Isabela realizes just how tidy a profit can be turned by turning her loose on the various merchants and smugglers they come into contact with on their travels, she is given very nearly free reign in the choosing of cargo.

She lets the business of it decide their course – at that time, she doesn’t care particularly where they end up. It is not so much that they are running, but rather that she has no desire to become attached to anyplace in particular. And Isabela, well, Isabela loves the freedom of the sea so much, and it is so infectious, that it is hard to miss her former landlocked existence.

She doesn’t think that she is restless, but one night, Isabela comes to her in the cargo hold, where she is counting barrels of wine and trying to figure out who has been skimming, and says, “You’re not bored, are you Hawke?”

“Hardly,” Hawke tells her, giving the barrels another critical look. “But I may just kill Guido once I catch him in here; I hope you don’t mind. That’s three barrels now.”

Isabela waves it off as unimportant, and announces, “Well, _I’m_ bored. Time for a change of scenery, I think.”

“You mean the fact that we’re in perpetual motion isn’t change enough?” Hawke asks, but it’s rhetorical, really – a bored Isabela is never good news for anyone, although the results of her boredom are, on occasion, rather entertaining.

Instead of responding, Isabela asks her, “How do you feel about Antiva?”

“Ambivalent,” Hawke says after a moment. “I thought the idea was to stay away from people who want to kill me.”

Isabela responds with, “Don’t worry, sweet thing; the Antivans won’t pay attention to you unless you walk around with a sign that reads ‘I’m the Lost Champion of Kirkwall’ around your neck. Maybe not even then.”

“Well, that’s encouraging,” Hawke tells her, then adds, “but I suppose we might as well make port and sell this before Guido manages to steal all of it.”

Isabela grins and tells her, “I knew you’d see it my way.”

***

As it turns out, Isabela’s right – she usually seems to be right, when it comes to these things – and no one in Antiva knows that she was once the Champion of Kirkwall. From those few who do seem to suspect something amiss with Isabela’s sudden partner, she receives a modicum of respect – once they’ve seen her swing her sword once or twice – and an occasional proposition – which she turns down as a rule of thumb, because she is all too aware of the fact that there are plenty of people who wouldn’t mind killing her in her sleep, and Isabela may be chief among them if she gets it into her head to take offense to wandering eyes.

It is fortunate for both of them that the Antivans are too tied up in their own intrigues to pay much attention to the pair of them except when they need something done; there is always someone asking them to kill someone else, and sometimes these jobs are welcome, sometimes they are irritating, and sometimes they are hilarious (the Crows try to hire her to kill Zevran, again, and really, Hawke thinks they should have learned better by now, but the three of them do have a lovely evening getting piss-face drunk on the advance in some little hole in the city slums when they find him, so it isn’t a total waste).

There is plenty of work to keep them busy on land, though most of it is disreputable, and it takes Hawke a few weeks to realize that they are not planning on taking any cargo and setting out again anytime in the near future. When she confronts Isabela about this, the Rivaini crosses her arms under her breasts and informs her, “Someone’s looking for you, if you must know, and I didn’t think you wanted to be found. Beautiful women with pointy weapons are a copper a dozen around here; provided you manage to keep from inciting another revolution, you’ll be harder to find in Antiva City than on any of the trade routes when everyone and their brother knows you were last seen with me.”

Hawke blinks and processes this and then asks incredulously, “You’re putting off a run to _protect_ me? Why Isabela, you really _are_ getting soft.”

The corners of Isabela’s lips curve up in a hint of a smile and she informs her, “Half of those rumors claim I kidnapped you, Hawke, and I’d be a sad excuse for a kidnapper if I handed you over to the Chantry now that I’ve got you to myself. They don’t pay particularly well, I’ve heard.”

“You’re a sad excuse for a kidnapper regardless,” Hawke parries, barely suppressing a laugh. “You could have tied me up to keep up appearances, at least.”

“I’m sure we can rectify _that_ , at any rate,” Isabela drawls with barely-disguised eagerness.

Hawke does laugh then, and responds with, “How did I know you would say that?”

“Must be love,” Isabela shrugs.

Hawke cannot stop the grin that comes across her face – because despite the fact that actions trump words, where Isabela is concerned, that particular word is rare enough even now to give her a thrill of pleasure. “Must be.”

***

They stay well into the summer, and when they set out again, Hawke sees that Isabela has replaced the entire crew, minus Enrico, who the captain probably couldn’t do without – apparently the value of a good punching bag who also knows how to steer in a storm is high. Against her better judgment, Hawke finally learns to handle the wheel herself – in good weather, at least – not to mention tie complicated knots and climb rigging with an easy grace. Her fair skin darkens under the relentless rays of the summer sun and her hair grows long enough that it is always getting into her eyes (she has learned the dangers of trusting Isabela with scissors the hard way, and it is not a mistake she intends to make again). She no longer thinks twice about the fact that she walks around mostly naked for the majority of the day, and the deck of the ship is steady under her feet no matter how the wind blows. She doubts anyone at all would recognize her now; sometimes she barely recognizes herself.

She doesn’t write, except to Bethany, sometimes, and even then only brief epistles without many details – _Doing well, the weather’s miserable, aren’t you glad you’re somewhere the summers don’t endeavor to roast you alive?_ – and because she doesn’t disclose her location, she never hears back, but she has to believe her sister is doing as well as can be expected, considering everything that has happened. She doesn’t send even these brief notes to anyone else, not because she doesn’t miss them but because she has a vague concern that they will have more trouble than she’s worth if it is discovered they know where she can be found. She trusts the Wardens to keep Bethany safe from the Chantry, even when they’re throwing her headlong into other danger. From her brief interaction with them, she senses they do not take orders from anyone, regardless of station.

Still, they hear things sometimes: an elf freeing slaves across Tevinter despite the growing price on his head (“Good for him,” Isabela says, and Hawke has to agree that as long as he doesn’t get himself killed, it probably _is_ good for him), some sort of civil unrest among the Dalish clans (“She’ll never learn,” Hawke says with a sigh), murmurs of a growing army in Starkhaven (“Tenacious, sanctimonious idiot,” is Isabela’s opinion), the Wardens and the Chantry growling at each other because the Wardens are accused of breaking neutrality (this, they do not talk about, not only because Bethany could be implicated, but also because Hawke is still utterly furious at Anders, even if Isabela thinks he did the right thing). Varric is the only one they ever hear from directly; he has a way of catching up with them periodically despite their itinerant lifestyle (“Well, if he wasn’t nosing into our business, we’d know he’s gotten himself dead,” is Isabela’s pragmatic opinion of this). From Varric, they learn that Aveline has taken a new post “somewhere relatively quiet” and has recently given birth to twins ( _They named the girl after you, Hawke_ , Varric’s letter tells them, and Hawke shakes her head; Isabela only says “Damn fool thing to do; now you know she’ll be nothing but trouble.”).

She misses them all (even Anders, sometimes, although she isn’t sure if she wouldn’t simply try to strangle him if she ever saw him again, for getting her into this mess), but she is not unhappy. She has the wind and the sea and the sun, she has work, of a sort, and she has Isabela, who keeps her from getting restless, usually in unique and unorthodox ways. It hasn’t quite gotten to the point of kidnapping royalty, one minor disaster with an Orlesian Contesse aside (as seemingly divine retribution, the little trollop decides that being kidnapped is great fun and is completely insufferable; Hawke is ready to pay her family to take her back by the end, instead of the other way around, just to be rid of her), but they get in just enough trouble to keep things interesting.

The war, as it spreads, begins affecting trade. Times are leaner now, although they make do. There are safe harbors yet, and as long as civilization continues, commerce does, too. Still, it is not avarice that keeps Isabela stubbornly on the trade routes, and it is not only her desperate desire for freedom – that has mellowed over the years. She has allowed herself to form attachments, and Hawke understands that were this not so, she would not still be here. But one has to give Isabela credit – once she decides to do something, she does it with a vengeance, and she has not once expressed regret at bringing Hawke along, even if her presence is sometimes more hindrance than help. They have, in their way, formed a sort of family, and if it is not the family Hawke once imagined she would have, it is, as it turns out, exactly the one she needs, because if she is honest, the fact that Isabela is determined to remain on the move despite decreased trade is almost certainly for her benefit.

Big things are happening across Thedas. The winds of revolution, fanned by her inability to let things be, have blown throughout the world, stirring up tension in all corners of civilization. Starkhaven’s army is on the march. The magisters of Tevinter are threatening hostilities. Circles everywhere are rising up, Templars everywhere are pushing back, and it appears that the Chantry has called on its own reserves, although whether or not it will help the situation remains unclear. The darkspawn are just about the only ones who seem to be willing to sit the conflict out, which is fairly fortunate – were a Blight to come now, everyone would likely be too busy killing each other to notice.

It is not something that she can ignore, although for the sake of her sanity she does endeavor to _try_. Sometimes, she does think guiltily that she should perhaps try to do _something_ , although the scope of the conflict is such that she cannot imagine what one human – or even two – can do to affect the outcome. Isabela steadfastly refuses to let her wallow in this state for long, however. “You are not required to save the whole damned world, Hawke,” she tells her crossly.

“Even if I started this?” Hawke asks her, and the captain replies, invariably, with, “It started itself. You were just _there_ at the time.” And while Isabela has an unflattering history of running from responsibility, these words have a ring of truth to them that calms her guilt to where she can live with it, most days.

***

The second year slips into the third, and the seas are now thick with warships, an inordinately large number of which are flying the Starkhaven flag, especially considering the fact that Sebastian’s demesne does not border the ocean. The first time they see one of these on the horizon, Isabela gives her a sideways look and says, “It’s been quiet lately, hasn’t it? Simply terrible for a legitimate businesswoman.”

Isabela’s definition of ‘quiet’ apparently includes three failed deliveries – unavoidable, as the cities meant for the cargo had been in chaos or, on one occasion, in flames – but it is certainly true that the war _is_ bad for business. “It brings a tear to my eye,” Hawke agrees. She thinks of all the people whose lives are burning to the ground. She tries not to feel responsible. She wonders how many more must die in Sebastian’s mad quest for one infuriating and troubled man – a man whose life she chose to spare out of sentiment. “You know, it occurs to me that there’s at least one surefire way to improve my mood.”

Isabela grins and tells her, “Funny, mine too. Shall we ruin someone’s day?”

Hawke grins back and says, “Oh, why not. My sword was getting lonely.”

Isabela raises her voice and shouts, “Time to earn your keep, boys! Canons at the ready, hard to starboard and prepare to board!”

As the ship lists drunkenly to one side, setting a collision course for the Starkhaven cruiser, she holds on for dear life and grins at the wild whoop of Isabela’s laughter.

***

Piracy, as it turns out, is infinitely more lucrative in times of war than any legitimate activity they have previously chosen to engage in. With a cargo hold bursting with plunder, they have docked in Kont-aar for much-needed supplies. This is one of the few places that have remained nearly untouched by the conflict, as it is lacking a Circle, but the mood of the times calls upon people to defend themselves. Having sunk four Starkhaven ships in the last several weeks, they have a healthy stock of weapon and arms to offer to those interested in a bit of extra protection.

 _I’ve heard an amusing rumor,_ Varric writes in a letter that is handed to Isabela by a passing child in the street; where he got it is anyone’s guess. _This rumor concerns a phantom ship terrorizing the Eastern Seas. At least, most people seem to believe it is a ship; others are speaking of dragons raining fire from the sky and sea serpents emerging from the deep, but you know how stories go. The ship – among those who believe there **is** a ship – is said to be captained by the undead, for none have survived to tell of the encounter. Strangely, only ships which sail under Starkhaven’s flag seem to be unfortunate enough to cross its path. The prince, it is said, is in an outrage, but I doubt his men will find anything, don’t you? After all, such is the nature of stories – it seems likeliest of all to me that this dreaded enemy most likely does not exist. Coincidence, pirates, Qunari… who knows what roams the Eastern Seas? And if such a ship is more than legend, well, no doubt its captain would recognize the folly of dodging Starkhaven’s full naval force and find elsewhere to be – although if the captain is, in fact, undead, I assume he is not likely to care._

“Well _that’s_ disappointing,” Isabela says with a grimace. “We were just getting started.”

“Better warned than dead,” Hawke says philosophically.

 _My dull existence is livened up only by my devotions, which have grown more frequent of late. The Chantry is a solace to those of us uprooted by these times of unrest, and I have found myself their grateful guest time and again. I have nothing to offer them in return, but the Maker remains merciful. In truth, I would help the sisters, were I able, but the things that they require are not in my power to give._

It is Hawke who winces at this; she somehow doubts the hospitality of the Divine has been particularly gracious to anyone known to be associated with her. It is little relief that Varric has not yet felt the full ire of the Chantry, and she hopes he realizes that he had best get out of their way before they decide to see if torture might not be a more effective means of extracting information.

Isabela is frowning at the letter, no doubt as confused as Hawke by Varric’s oblique suggestion that Hawke turn herself in. “He wouldn’t,” Isabela mutters angrily. “That motherless son of a spavined goat _wouldn’t_.”

“No,” Hawke says slowly, because it is clear that Varric’s word to her – to give her all the space she requires to sort her life out – still supersedes any request made of him by a third party. “But it does rather seem like he thinks _I_ should.” And that’s interesting, because it would certainly be a change of tune. She wishes she could get a straightforward account of what has happened, but that, of course, is impossible.

 _Otherwise, I fear I have little of interest to mention except perhaps the weather. It is growing chilly here, but it seems that the sun will be shining on Hossberg for His Majesty the King of Ferelden’s state visit in a few weeks. It promises to be quite a sight._

“That dwarf has finally lost his marbles,” Isabela says disgustedly, but Hawke looks thoughtfully at the letter and remembers Varric’s teasing voice, all those years ago, _So, Lady Sunshine, what's your first act as a noblewoman going to be?_

“Bethany,” she says with certainty. She feels a chill as she contemplates just what, exactly, the kings of Ferelden and the Anderfels could want with her sister who, damn it all, was supposed to be _safe_ among the Wardens. It seems that whether she likes it or not, her period of self-imposed exile is at an end. She may not be ready to rejoin the world, but there is no question that she will do so, for Bethany.

Isabela gives her a short, critical once-over and says, “Well, it’s a long way around Seheron if we want to steer clear of the holy navy. We might as well get going.”

“Isabela-”

“I’ve never been to the Anderfels,” Isabela interrupts blithely. “I hear it’s _dull_. Nothing but wasteland and darkspawn. But we can liven it up, I’ll bet.”

“You don’t have to go,” Hawke tells her quietly.

Isabela _glares_. “You’re going, I’m going. I haven’t spent the last three years keeping you out of trouble-” Hawke cannot help an incredulous laugh “-just to hand you over now. Besides, I’ve been naked with King Alistair – I’m sure _something_ can be worked out.”

“We don’t know what he wants with her,” Hawke points out. But she cannot help feeling a little bit relieved, because it seems that whatever she will be facing, she is in no danger of facing it alone.

“Well then, maybe we’ll just go ahead and get him naked again,” Isabela says with a shrug. “Either way, we win.”

Hawke shakes her head incredulously, but Isabela is already striding towards the market, and she has to hurry to keep up. “I feel I have to ask, Isabela,” she says, “exactly how many monarchs _have_ you been naked with?”

Isabela shoots her a decidedly wicked look over her shoulder. “Are we counting Tevinter magisters?”

“You know what,” Hawke says, “on second thought, I don’t want to know.”


End file.
